


you're dying and you know it.

by PaleAssassin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, I don't know what I'm doing, somone make me stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleAssassin/pseuds/PaleAssassin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re dying.</p>
<p>You’re dying and you know it, and your brother asks you if it hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're dying and you know it.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone make me stop now.  
> Just a warning, I cried when reading this back to myself, so don't yell at me please.

You’re dying.

You’re dying and you know it, and your brother asks you if it hurts. When he does there are tears in his eyes, not falling down his face like you think they should be, not creating little rivers like they had when you got the news. His eyes are sad and lonely and scared, and you know you can’t tell him the truth.

He asks you if it hurts and you tell him no. You tell him no with a smile on your face, the way you used to back before; the one that lights up the room and makes everyone smile with you. You tell him no and he nods, taking the words at face value.

(It does, though. It hurts worse than a knife in your lungs, but you don’t tell him that. You want him to think that you’re fine, that you’ll die in peace.)

You’re dying and you know it, lying in a grey, itchy hospital bed, the beeping of the heart monitors and your brothers even breaths the only sounds you hear. He asks you if you’re scared, and there’s fear in his voice when he does. You look at him, noticing the bloodshot eyes and the five o’clock shadow that comes when he’s been sitting by you for too long. You look at him and you see the same fear you held for so long now. He asks you if you’re scared, and you say no. He smiles at you, running a hand over your bald head like he wants to run his fingers through your hair like he used to, and you let him. You let him call you your old nicknames that you hate, if only to see him smile.

(But you’re so very scared, so scared of dying, so scared of leaving him. But you want him to remember you as brave, so you don’t say a word.)

You’re dying and you know it, the pain in your head getting worse by the day. Black tendrils snake across every inch of your body, only you know they aren’t really there.  Pain lights up every nerve, enticing whines out from wherever you hid them so long ago. They keep you drugged up most of the time now.

Your brother’s not the only one at your bedside now. There’s another man, older, with grey hair and a baseball cap. You think of him as a father, more than your own father anyway, because of course he isn’t here.  The man with the baseball cap keeps calling you names, and you just have to laugh, even with the pain that comes with every gasp.

 A woman comes to visit too, older than she looks. She’s named like a state you’ve been to before, and you like the way she’s tough on your brother, bullying him into sleeping and eating and showering. Once, when you’re alone with her, you ask her to take care of both of the men. She smiles and nods, in the same way you do when you’re trying not to cry, and takes your hand.

You’re dying and you know it, and finally your father comes to visit. He’s not crying like the man with the baseball cap was, but you can tell he’s hurting. He smells like whiskey and gunpowder, and you try not to think about what he was doing while you lay dying in a hospital bed, so far away from home. He comes to your bedside when your brother is gone, but he doesn’t take your hand. He asks you if it hurts, and you don’t have the energy to lie anymore. You tell him that it hurts to move, to think, to breathe. You tell him about the black tendrils snaking across your arms and legs and chest. You tell him that you’re scared, and that you don’t want to leave them, and that this is _so unfair_. You cry and you tell him this, knowing it will be the last time you can do either. He holds you when you’re finished, whispering into non-existent hair and telling you that he won’t leave you again. You don’t call him out on the lie.

You’re dying and you know it, know it from the minute you wake up that this is your last day. You can feel it in your bones, how the aching has stopped and the pain has abated. You’re lucid for once when you wake up, and your brother is really happy about that. (It’s surprisingly good to know you will die today, to know that the last good day you have is the one where you take your final breath. You aren’t scared of dying anymore, not when dying is like this). Your brother and father and the man with the baseball cap thinks it’s a good sign, but the doctor sends them sympathetic looks when they can’t see her. She knows as well as you do, but you made her promise not to tell. You want your last day to be something good to remember, not full of tears and pain and alcohol.

You manage to get the nurse and doctor to let your brother wheel you out into the courtyard of the hospital. You haven’t been there in weeks, not since you were admitted. Your brother is happy, smiling at the change in your behavior. He calls you nicknames, and you don’t let him this time, not until he calls you the one only _he_ can call you. The man with the baseball cap laughs at your jokes, no matter how bad they are, and calls you an idjit. Your father is the best, though. He calls you all the names you hate, the names he hasn’t called you since you were young. He lets you off the hook for some of the things you’ve done, and you’re so grateful for the chance at redeeming yourself before you leave them. He tells you that he loves you, and you know you can’t cry, but it’s a damn near thing.

You smile and laugh and nod, watching the warm wind blow through the newly green trees. You’re happy to die today, when the sun is warm and the spring is starting to develop into summer. You can smell the green grass and the warmth that spreads through you isn’t from the drugs. You’re happy, and your family is happy, and that’s all that matters.

When your family leaves to go get something to eat, leaving you outside with a nurse to watch you while they grab lunch to bring back, the woman with the name of a state comes to you. She’s crying, and you know she knows. You let her cry on your shoulder, trying your hardest not to join her, and tell her it’s okay. You tell her that you aren’t afraid anymore, and that you’ll go happily and peacefully, just like you wanted. She smiles when you this, and smiles wider when you thinks of all the people you’ll get to see up in Heaven.  At least, that’s what you thinks she smiles at. You never know with her.

She leaves before your family comes back, whispering apologies for things you don’t blame her for, and your family never knows she’d been there. You smile while you watch them eat ravenously, as if they hadn’t eaten in days. For all you know, they haven’t. They notice it when you begin to get tired, insisting that you go back to your bed to sleep. You try to tell them off, knowing that if you fall asleep that you won’t wake up, but they won’t have it. It’s okay, you think as they wheel you back inside, because we’ve had enough memories in one day to last them a lifetime.

Your brother puts on your favorite movie when you lay down, curling up at your side like he’d been doing for the past few days. Your father and the man with the baseball cap sit on either side of you, protecting, being the pillars. You love them, you say, and they smile at you. Your brother calls you a girl, and you laugh. The man with the baseball cap pats you on the shoulder like he hadn’t been able to do for so long, and you give him a watery smile. It’s your father who says it back reverently, as if he knows it will be the last thing you say. You let sleep take you then, knowing you’ll be surrounded by those you love in your final moments, and that they know that you love them.

Your favorite movie is almost over when you feel your heart stop suddenly. Of course, you don’t really feel it. By then, you’re standing above your body, watching as your brothers’ face dawns in horror at what just happened. The man with the baseball cap puts his head in his hands as the monotone, drawn-out beep fills the hospital room. It’s your father who starts crying, softly at first, then with a full force; the sobs he emits shake him so hard you’re afraid he’ll fall off the chair. But that’s all you see, because there’s a beautiful woman with short black hair standing in front of you, holding out her pale hand and asking you if you’re ready. You know what she is, know for sure that she’s good, and you tell her yes. You leave your brother one last kiss on the head, the man with the baseball cap a hug, and your father an “I love you” and take her hand.

You’re dying and you know it, and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so is that painful enough?   
> Anyway, if you could leave me a comment, constructive criticism, tell me if I'm doing terribly, that'd be great. I'd really appreciate it.
> 
> (P.S I am putting this up on my tumblr account, PaleAssassin, so I'm not copying. Not that it would seem like I am, since both usernames are the same.)


End file.
